


Muddled Clarity

by SarcasmFish (Alcyonidae)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort, Cute, F/M, a touch of angst, i guess every inquisitor needs a story where they get drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-02 23:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10229990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyonidae/pseuds/SarcasmFish
Summary: After her first experience of drinking a tad too much, the Inquisitor is escorted back to her quarters by the Commander.  Her muddled state leaves him little clarity.





	

“Singing?  Really?”  The soldier’s tone held a scandalous edge.

“Well… Is she any good?”  His comrade standing across from him at the base of the stairs asked.

The other chuckled and shook his head.  “Maker, no!  But then she challenged The Iron Bull to a fight!”

It was late, night had long since muted the colors of Skyhold leaving behind only purples and blues.  Cullen descended the stairs towards his gossiping soldiers, gloved hands clasped behind his back.  The two fell silent and straightened with a snapped salute as he passed.  He nodded in acknowledgement.  There was no harm in idle chatter between soldiers and, honestly, Cullen would much rather chastise gossiping than break up another fist fight in the barracks.  These soldiers were on their own time and he would not interfere with how they chose to spend their freedom.

He strode on through the courtyard, the two men resuming their conversation as if he had not passed.

“Honestly, I’d pay to see the Inquisitor fight anyone.” 

“Maker, yes!” the man replied with an enthusiastic laugh.  “Think of the show!”

Cullen slowed his pace, caught up in thoughts and threads that were beginning to come together in his mind.  He eyed the tavern in front of him.  It was the one disparity amid the still darkness of the rest of Skyhold.  Lights burned through the windows and laughter spilled from the doors.  He hesitated.  It was not a place he often visited.  Varric would say it was because he would not allow himself to have fun.

The Inquisitor had returned that morning from one of her missions in the Hinterlands.  He was not her keeper and, he reminded himself with a firm thought, he was a former Templar.  It was not his place to keep a watch on her.

He hefted a sigh.  But he was her advisor and a friend.  He transferred his hands to the pommel of his sword before heading off toward the tavern.  There was no harm in checking up.  And it would be nice to share a drink with the Inquisitor and her friends if they would allow him.

Cullen made his way inside.  The tavern was more packed than he had seen in months.  He ended up having to shove his way through a thick crowd just to reach a point where he could look around.  Soldiers, nobles, and the members of the Inquisitor’s inner circle found space to squeeze in.  It was warm and loud.  Bodies and a roaring fireplace made him begin to sweat almost at once.  He stood looking a moment, but was swiftly forced to duck out of the way of a passing server carrying a tray overladen by large foaming mugs.

He squeezed past a group of soldiers, laughing, singing, hanging off of each other, too far gone to even recognize their superior.  Over the heads of the crowd he saw her, like a spotlight had been cast over her form.  Even if his eyes did not seek her out no matter his command, she was hard to miss.  The Inquisitor strode atop one of the long tables near the center of the tavern, holding a tankard that had once been Bull’s judging by the size of it in her hand.  She appeared to be carrying on a conversation with those gathered around her table, laughter sprinkled liberally between statements.  Her cheeks were tinted a gentle pink.

Long ago the woman standing proud atop the tavern table had been Lady Talia Trevelyan of Ostwick.  Josephine had once listed her pedigree and training to him, as if he could discern the listed names from any other.  Years later, well removed from nobility, she still held herself with the careful bearing of an aristocrat.  But not tonight.  Tonight, her posture was open, welcoming, joyful.  It filled his lungs like air.

Someone bumped into him from behind and slurred an apology, breaking him from his reverie.

At his approach, The Iron Bull clapped him on the shoulder, almost knocking him from his feet.

“Well, look who it is!  Glad you could join us, Commander.”

“Bull, is the Inquisitor drunk?”  He asked as he stood beside the man, eyes trained on the Inquisitor above them.

“It seems so, doesn’t it?”

“She’s a mage, you know.  She’s likely never been drunk before.”  She was perched near the edge of the table now, leaning over to wave at Varric who had ventured to the bar.  Cullen gripped the sword pommel hard enough to hear a knuckle crackle.

Bull turned to face him, resting a large hand on his shoulder.  “All the more reason, then.”

One foot hung halfway off the edge of the wood.  He could feel his teeth grinding.  She was still trying to get Varric’s attention.  Her wave became larger, more exaggerated, including her entire arm.  The tankard in her hand was an awful counterbalance, the dark drink sloshed over the edge each time she moved.  There was a dangerous sway to the way she stood.

He found himself taking unplanned steps closer to the table each time she teetered.

His approach caught her attention.  The smile she turned on him was unfocused, but so full of elation it caught him in the chest like a blow from the flat of a practice sword.  It was not only the smile.  Her eyes held none of the careful hesitation they usually did in his presence.  Instead, they brimmed with an unrestrained joy.

“Cullen!” she cried.  A distant, giddy voice in his head noted the lack of title presiding his name, but the more vigilant part of his mind was ringing alarms at the way her feet shuffled along the brink to maintain her dubious balance.

He gave a slight bow, not taking his eyes from her form.  “Why don’t you come down from there so we can speak more easily?”

Her pretty smile changed into a cocky smirk.  “Why, Commander,” she slurred, “Are you asking me to dance?  The Trevelyan’s are well known to be marvelous dancers, you know.”  The smirk changed into a perplexed expression, as if she were suddenly doing complex math.  “At least, I think…”

Cullen took the moment of puzzlement to lift his hand out to her.  “Allow me to help you down, my lady Inquisitor.”

An annoyed frown darkened her face.  It distracted him.  She was always so calm, each emotion so measured, these swings of mood were like discovering there was a stance of the Chant he had never known.

“Talia,” she corrected, drawing out the syllables as if he had simply pronounced it wrong one too many times.

“Talia.”  He lifted his offered hand a bit higher as she tipped again, spilling so much of her drink over the side that he had to wonder how there could possibly be any left.

The charming smile returned to her lips.  She handed off the tankard without even looking.  If Bull had not reached out to take it, the mug would have crashed to the floor.  She took ahold of Cullen’s hand and surprised him by jumping right down off the table top without a moment’s thought.

As predicted, she stumbled, immediately losing her tenuous balance as gravity took its toll.  Cullen caught her before she could fall.  Someone was clapping, but he knew he was blushing red enough not to look.

Talia made little effort to find her feet and leaned most of her weight against him, a delighted giggle escaping her.  The sound bubbled inside of him, bringing a smile to his face.

He was surprised by her lightness.  There was no doubt in his mind that the Inquisitor was a formidable force.  Even without her magic her skill with the stave was dangerous enough.  But he was accustomed to the bulk of a Templar, all heavy muscle designed to shoulder armor, shields, swords, and to stop a blow before it could do harm.  The Inquisitor was lean, agile, built to avoid damage, not absorb it.  The disparity distracted him.

He lifted her and settled her back on her feet.  She wavered, but stood steady.

He found it difficult to let go and could not fathom why.  He was concerned for her was all, he assured himself.  The leader of the Inquisition stumbling and breaking a leg would do no good.

“I should…” he stammered, his tongue thick with her nearness.  “Could I…  Might I walk you back to your quarters, Inquisitor?”

Something he swore might have been hurt flickered over her eyes before a smile brightened them again.  “Yes.  That seems like a good idea.”

She straightened a bit, her shoulders squaring before she led the way through the tavern.  He followed behind, watching the crowd part for her as she walked.  Even inebriated she had the bearing of a leader.

Outside the crowded tavern, she looped her arm around the crook of his own, a laugh slipping from her lips.  He had seen her make such intimate actions to others, Dorian, Cassandra, but never to him.  She treated him with distance, with hesitance.  Each movement had a pause, a lingering doubt.  He was once a Templar.  She was a mage.  And though she had never said, he knew her history with Templars was not a positive one.  He could not fault her for the latent fear that flickered in her eyes when he made a movement too sharp or when his voice rose above a normal level.  That hesitance was beginning to disappear, the distance between them winding closed as days marched on.  He could be patient.

She was laughing again about something, or nothing, and surprised him by falling into step at his side.  Cullen drew her closer.  If she were to fall he had to be near enough to catch her again, after all.

The soldiers from earlier had disappeared.  The night had darkened, thick purple clouds covered the starlight above, leaving the pathways dark.  Cullen had walked these areas enough to find his way even in the darkness.

They walked across the courtyard, arm in arm.  To anyone else they may have been a couple retiring from a date.  The Inquisitor fell quiet as they walked, but a glance revealed a small smile still fixed on her lips.

Cullen found himself taking note of the feel of her at his side, the way her arm coiled around his own, the way she rested her hand on his forearm, not the metal of his vambrace.  She leaned into him just enough for him to be able to feel the weight of her again as they walked.  It would be so simple, so easy to slip his arm around her shoulders, to pull her into his side and shelter her beneath his arm.  He wondered if he were not so covered in steel if she might have even leaned her head against him.  It brought out dangerous daydreams of the softness of her hair.

“You’re the nicest Templar I’ve ever met.”  It was a whisper, absent, wistful, as if she had not meant to say it out loud.

He froze, nearly stumbling over his own feet and taking her down with him.

She looked up at him with a gasp, a crowning horror marring her features.  “I… you’re not.  I didn’t mean… I…”

She moved to step away from him, to pull her arm free from his grasp.  He would not hold her against her will, but felt an overwhelming panic.  Maker, it felt so right to have her so close, it was like opening a door on a frosty day when she moved away.  He wanted nothing more than to keep her close and make this stroll together endless.

Her accidental slip of his previous title had not offended him.  He offered her a reassuring smile, small, but sincere.

“I’m sorry if that’s true.”  His voice was soft, but earnest.  “I truly am.”

When he did not admonish or correct her, she stared at him, confusion and something like wonder clouding her expression.  A tentative step brought her beside him again, she returned her arm to where it had wrapped around his, both hands now folding on his forearm.  She let him draw her near again.  The smile had faded from her lips, but he could feel her watching him, stealing little glances as they walked.

At her door he turned to her, offering her another bow.  Her eyes were clearer, the cold walk must have brought her some sobriety.  She caught his hand, the warmth of her fingers seeping through his gloves.  He wondered for a moment if she might allow him to kiss her hand like he had observed so many nobles do, but there was an urgency in her eyes that cleared such silly thoughts.

She took a step closer to him, leaving little room between them.

“I’m sorry, Cullen.”

His head tilted, too distracted by the color and depths of her eyes to remember what she could be apologizing for.

“You aren’t a Templar.”  She squeezed his hand, the sincerity in her eyes imploring him to understand what she was saying and what she was not.  “Not at all.”

He was too stunned by her proximity, by her touch, by the softness and gravity of her voice to respond.

“Thank you for walking me back.  Sleep well.”  She propped herself up on her toes and pressed a kiss to the edge of his jaw, then disappeared into her rooms, leaving him gaping.

What had just transpired between them?

He stood staring at the wood in the door until he could gather himself enough to turn and make his way back to his duties.


End file.
